The gesture felt theatrical to me, but the hurt in his face was real. I did not want to hurt him more than I already had.
Sensing the tension, Ethan suddenly let out a wail in his arms, tiny fists clutching tightly at his father’s collar.
His cry tore through the smallness of the shop and made everyone breathe a little faster.
“What’s wrong with you, Angela?” one colleague blurted out. “Your husband’s done all this for you, and you still act so cold? Can’t you hear your child crying? Do you even care as a mother?”
All the old expectations—the checklist of motherhood, gratefulness, duty—flooded over me like a tide.
“Exactly. What man doesn’t make mistakes? And that childhood sweetheart of his is dead, anyway. He’s already humbled himself so much. You should know when enough is enough.”
The chorus pressed around me with the same familiar pressure I felt at family dinners, where loving someone the wrong way made you the enemy.
Jonathan quickly raised a hand to stop them. “It’s not her fault. It’s me. I haven’t done well enough.”
He took the blame as if it might hold together the pieces that were beginning to fall apart. It was a fragile thing to witness.